


Orenda

by Tahoe_Tess_Tudnas



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Bilbo Baggins, BAMF Dís, Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Time Travel, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-02 02:47:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15787389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tahoe_Tess_Tudnas/pseuds/Tahoe_Tess_Tudnas
Summary: Orenda - (n.)  A  mystical  force  present  in  all  people  that  empowers  them  to  affect  the  world  or  to  affect  change  in  their  own  lives.Dis is a simple dwarrowdam, who lost everything precious to her once upon a time.Years later, Mahal - or whatever god may be - has suddenly gifted her with a second chance, and by the stones, she will not waste it.





	Orenda

Dis, daughter of Thrain, son of Thror, was born in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain, in times of growing worry and unnamed tension building both within and without. She doesn’t really remember this. She doesn’t remember that though most dwarves celebrated her birth – a blessing from Mahal, they called it, for three to be born to one family – others whispered under their breath of a curse, of a madness, of the line of Durin falling deeper and weaker into the abyss.

 

She was barely a toddler, barely standing upright, and the Arkenstone shone so brightly – _menacingly_ – above her grandfather’s throne. It took all of her small, tiny patience not to smash it on the throne floor the first time she sees. She didn’t understand the feeling of hate that nearly overwhelmed her senses, and though the impulse left her quickly, she avoided the throne room like the plague after that.

 

Aside from the Arkenstone, what little Dis did remember of Erebor remained wrapped in the warmth and protection of her brothers, one dark and brooding with gentle smiles coaxed none too easily while the other brother brought light and spoke airily with mischief twinkling in his blue eyes. Both watched over her, guided her through her lessons and her toddling days while their parents kept a kingdom from drowning in its own madness and despair.

 

_(And if sometimes she saw herself, older, wiser, and broken, walking through ravaged empty halls with three tombs laid out before her - well, she didn’t tell anyone)_

 

But even through her brothers’ best efforts of ( _false_ ) comfort and frivolity, Dis still dreamed of dragon-flames and wandering years stretched out before her and she wondered why she grieved for things not yet gained and not yet lost. 

 

It was almost a relief when the dragon came.

 

**

 

The Queen died in the flames and their father went mad in his grief. Dis tried to cry, tried to comfort her eldest brother who felt a closeness with their mother better than any other, but there was no time for tears, at least not for the Blessed Heir and his brethren who now must lead their people – _lost, all lost and grieving and wandering now_ – to safety in place of a mad king and crowned prince who could not.

 

“To the Blue Mountains,” Dis piped up, knowing it was right, knowing their people would be safe there. Thorin and Frerin glanced at her, as did the other advisors in the makeshift tent.

 

“What do you mean, Princess?” General Fundin asked –

 

_he is tall, taller than any dwarf she has ever met, but he has kind eyes and a smile for her when she asks for sword lessons, and she remembers his sons, strong and wise and brave and foolish, young then old then alone, though she cannot remember when._

 

\- and Dis met his gaze evenly, looking up from her wooden toy. “We must go to the Blue Mountains. They’ll take us in. They like us,” she stated it with all the certainty of a child’s belief and a woman’s intuition.

 

The men – _males, so foolish sometimes, the woman’s voice in her head whispers bitterly_ – looked around in confusion but it was Fundin who stepped up and supported her, just as it had always been.

 

“It is not a bad decision, your Highness. We have long had great trading relations with the Blue Mountains and they have remained staunch allies in all our wars. They would not turn us away now.”

 

Thorin – _her poor older brother, so burdened, so pained too early in this life_ – barely flinched under his new address and instead nodded his head in acquiesce. “To the Blue Mountains, it is.”

 

**

 

Years passed slowly and decades slower still, filled with hard labor in the lands of Men and the persistent feeling of loss, but eventually, at a time when the refugees of Erebor settled briefly in the Blue Mountains and their father stepped out of his grief long enough to lead the dwarves through the byzantine politics of a displaced people, Dis awakened for another day among the forges and court of their people.  

 

It was morning, in fact, and she could hear her eldest brother getting ready to go to work while Frerin mumbled incoherently in his sleep, blond hair tussled and messy. The light of dawn had not yet hit the horizon and Dis groaned inwardly at the idea of leaving the bare comfort of her bed. (But she had not failed to see her brother off with a smile and she would not fail now.)

 

Slowly, she rose for the day and shifted to move from her nest of blankets, and suddenly, she _remembered_.

 

_(Describing it later to Bilbo, she would say that her heart stopped and her world stilled like the top of a cool lake, and flashes of over 300 years spread out before her mind. In an instant, she felt the joy, the grief, the hardship, the pain, and eventually the end of another life lived in another time. Times of peace and times of war)._

 

_Well, that certainly explains the dreams_ , she thought, shaking her head, blinking out the visions, as she looked at her young hands, felt the calluses barely built along the edges, and relished in a youthful body once more.

 

She sat upon her bed a moment longer, keeping her breath even so as to not wake her brother and Dis, once Princess Heir of Erebor, Elf-friend, SteelEye, and Stoneheart, pondered. It was no vision, not with the tears running down her cheeks at the fresh ( _old_ ) loss of her sons, not with the sight of them ( _her children_ ) still so clear in her mind’s eye, not with the blaze of battle and her last breath still rattling in her lungs.

 

No, it was not a mere vision, but that being the case, what was she doing here? She could not remember Mandos or her Maker’s Halls. She only remembered a life fully lived and fully lost.

 

“Dis,” Frerin mumbled from his bed, his head peeking up out of his blankets to glance at her. “Wh’s you doing?”

 

Her breath halted in her chest as she took in the sight of her older brother ( _lost now found. Oh dear)_.

 

“Nothing, brother,” she rumbled, voice barely broken as she carefully folded away her pain ( _too many years, too much practice)_. “We still have a few before sunrise. Sleep.”

 

He frowned at her, obviously detecting some sort of lie but eventually nestled back into his bed. She huffed good-naturedly, filled with too much joy to have much of a bother.

 

Her soul lit with another flame, and even as she gazed around their room ( _small, so small, but filled with love, filled with life, oh how she had missed it),_ she chuckled with a resounding glee.

 

Mandos, Mahal, even Great Eru, what did it truly matter whose force pulled her here?

 

She had another chance, and by the Maker’s forge, she would not waste it.

 

**

 

That . . . was easier said than done. She had forgotten how _pigheaded_ the males of her line were.

 

“What do you mean you are marching on Azanulbizar?” Dis asked, eyes narrowed and mouth turned down in a truly frightening scowl if she was being modest.

 

Judging by the rapid paling of her father’s and brothers’ faces, she was not. Good, she hadn’t lost her touch. 

 

Thorin took a tentative step forward. “Our king has decreed that we will march on Moria to reclaim the mines there and rebuild our kingdom.”

 

Dis shifted her gaze directly to Frerin, finding no happiness in the fact that he flinched back under her unimpressed stare. 

 

( _When her sons and eldest brother die, they say that something died in Dis as well. Her eyes grew as black as the color of a moonless night, impassive and emotionless as the mining depths; whatever forge lit in the souls of Durin had been extinguished forever by tragedy until nothing but shadows and dust remained._

_“They fear you, m’lady,” Balin said once off-hand during a cup of tea, one of the few dwarrows who could meet her gaze evenly. Dwalin as ever stood behind him, tense and wary as though she was a dragon herself. “And even I must say that your seemingly heartless attitude is . . . off-putting.”_

_She chuckled hollowly. “Fear me? What do they have to fear from a ghost?”_

_The nobles never seem to bother her again.)_

“It is foolishness,” she muttered under her breath, looking away back to her anvil. Her brothers tensed behind her, angry and wary, while their father stepped forward.

 

“Foolishness?” he rumbled and she turned back to catch a glimpse of anger, a glimpse of the father she knew before grief tore him away. Good. “Foolishness to enact revenge upon those orcs who claim right to dwarrow heritage, to _your heritage._ You call that foolishness, daughter?! You are too young to understand the glory of our line, the sons of Durin, and you cannot possible comprehend the anger we feel toward those who would humiliate us, toward the monsters who dare to spit on our honor just by existing.”

 

Dis watched impassively as he yelled at her, his face red beneath his beard, and she thought resignedly of the sheer _stubbornness_ of dwarf males and the likelihood that he would listen to her when she spoke of their grandfather’s and Frerin’s deaths, of his descent into madness at the hands of the Necromancer. Then, after a moment, she nodded in acquiescence. “Very well, _adad_ , if you insist on this venture, then you have my blessing.”

 

Thrain paused then snorted, looking pleased with himself as he and Frerin went to make preparations while Thorin watched her warily.

 

“And what will you be doing?” Thorin asked, stepping forward with blue eyes narrowed. Ah, Thorin, he had always known her best.

 

She shrugged, turning back to the anvil, a gleaming sheet of metal resting on its head. “I don’t know what you mean, brother.”

 

Her hands tightened beneath her tunic, looking for her swords. To war, it was then.

 

**

 

Despite her new memories, she had forgotten war. She had forgotten that she was merely one young dwarrowdam in a sea of bodies sent back to the mud.

 

For months during the War on Orcs ( _what fun to kill the black bloods again; she had forgotten how vicious she could be)_ , Dis had managed to hide herself among the grunts and Firebeards and Broadbeams as a young scouting lad, but eventually, when the final battle came, she roused her fury, her twin _kopis **[1]**_ swords lashing at each and every orc that came across her deadly path.

 

It was loud, so _very_ loud, with the screams and screeches of dwarves and orcs dying across the brazen stone and blackened mud. A pause, and she saw an axe raised and Frerin’s blond braids pulled back by orc claws.  

 

A beat, and her vision narrowed, her mind sharpened and honed onto her brother like a mithril blade. Before she knew it, she had halted the executioner’s axe and sliced through orc flesh like butter as another knife flew through the air, cutting her cheek and nearly catching her in the eye. Her breath heaved in her chest as she glanced around, keeping her sharp eyes upon the orcs which backed away from the dwarrow who had just carved through ten of them like a storm of death and fury.

 

“Get up, brother,” Dis rumbled, lifting her gleaming swords once more. She heard the gasp from behind, but could not find it in her to care even as she side-eyed an obviously shaken Frerin for wounds. A nasty bump to his head, an arrow through his shoulder, and it looked like a broken rib.

 

Eh, he’d live.

 

“D-Dis?! What are you doing here?”

 

“Saving your behind, it looks like, _nadad_.” Dis grunted, slashing right to take out a lower orc while spinning to catch another orc blade raised with a roar. The orcs were still stronger than her, but her fighting technique – while lacking in strength – more than made up in speed and precision. She was SteelEye, after all.

 

After that, there was no more talking, no more time, as the orcs converged and the siblings were pushed back to back. Dis had forgotten her brother’s skill at the axe and hammer, his ability to block and bludgeon and bring the orcs to their knees while Dis went in for the kill. Within moments, the fighting became fluid and endless until a vicious, cold-blooded roar resounded across the field, halting the battle and sending shivers down Dis’ spine.

 

She raised her eyes to see the Pale Orc ( _her hated enemy and she cursed the day he died, the day he ruined her future, her children, any hope of happiness)_ lift their grandfather’s severed head. She heard Thorin’s pained-filled cry echo across the battle, saw the dwarves falter in their fighting, the orcs turning with renewed strength.

 

She growled, moving forward through the oncoming orcs and fighting her way to Thorin’s side. “Du Bekar!” Dis shouted with each slain orc. “Du Bekar! Dwarves of Erebor! Du Bekar!!”

 

Soon, Frerin joined at her side, raising the cry to fight, to stand, as well. Then Fundin and Balin and Dwalin and other dwarves echoed the shout as they moved forward, drums rumbling in the distance. The orcs were numerous and a lucky swipe caught her chest while another in her arm and still she continued onward, her gaze only on the Pale Orc and her brother.

 

Her foolish brother who now used an oaken branch as a shield, who swiped at the Pale Orc’s arm, severing it at the elbow. There was a screech of pain and fear, and the orcs instinctively made for the cavernous depths of Moria in retreat. Dis didn’t care about that; she didn’t care about their retreat. She wanted him _dead._

 

She and Frerin reached Thorin just as the orcs dragged their wounded leader away. Dis cursed loudly and figuratively, looking for an arrow, a spear, anything to ensure that the _monster_ would never live to see another Durin. Finding none, she scowled, then turned to where the Pale Orc watched her brother with manic eyes from the protection of his orcs. She stepped in front, blocking his gaze, until all the Pale Orc could see as he was dragged into the cavernous depths was her.

 

In Black Speech learned long ago (the better to interrogate, the better to kill them with), she rumbled this oath, watching in satisfaction as the orcs stopped in shock, as the Pale Orc jerked and sweated in pain **. “ _Remember this, you useless piece of elf-kissing, snotling-fodder. If you survive, if you ever live long enough to serve your precious Master, I’ll be waiting.”_** She pointed her sword at him, meeting his wide, lone eye with all the hatred she could muster.

 

She waited a moment, huffing slightly in exhaustion until a rough jerk of her unwounded arm pulled her back to face two terrifyingly furious older brothers.

 

Dis winced. This was not going to be pretty.

 

**

 

It wasn’t pretty. There was yelling, a lot of yelling, threats to cut off beards and braids, and to wrap her chains to the bed and groundings for years, and basically, a lot of hugs and desperate bumps to the heads with tears in all eyes ( _even hers as well as she realized that this future she had at least changed)_.

 

The aftermath of the battle was even more exhausting than the fighting itself as the numbers of lost dwarrow came rolling in, as the healing tents filled quietly and quickly, as their losses counted and recounted ending with a staggering result.

 

Eventually, Dis found herself in the General’s tent, guarded by Frerin as well as the sons of Fundin. Grim faces, streaked with black blood and ash, stared bleakly around and outside, the shouts of the wounded and dying filled the air. 

 

“If I may ask, milady,” Fudnin started, huffing from where he sat. She stared at him a moment, surprised because as she recalled, the great General had died in this battle, and had she really changed so much? “As a dwarrowdam, what in Mahal were you thinking joining this horrific battle?” 

 

The faces of the males around the room darkened at the thought and Dis had the uncomfortable, unfamiliar sensation of guilt. She scowled in response anyway. “I am a daughter of Durin’s line, daughter of Thrain, son of Thror. I would not and could not sit idly by while my entire family, my people, went to war.”

 

“ _Namad_ , you claimed this was foolishness,” Frerin reminded her, an uncharacteristic frown upon his face.

 

“Was it not?” she asked softly, but not unkindly. The dwarrow looked down, faces frowning or scowling in the distance as more cries from the healing tents came up. She sighed, feeling every inch of her sore limbs.

 

“It was,” Thorin’s voice answered her quietly and they turned to look at their Crowned Prince. Face turned down into a frown, he sat upon one of the chairs, staring at the table, his oaken shield placed down before him.

 

He glanced up, deep blue eyes dark and brooding as they captured each and every dwarf in the tent. “In our greed for the mining rights of Moria, for a new place to call home, we cost the lives of hundreds of dwarrow, those of our kingdoms and of others as well. How many dwarflings will now grow up without fathers? How many of our mothers will have lost sons and husbands? The loss . . . this loss is too great to measure. How can we come back from something like this?”

 

Dis stared at her brother, frowning. She had never heard him sound so weak or tired. In her previous life, when he had returned from battle bearing the brunt of their kingdom, he had not confessed this type of doubt, this type of fear. She wondered if he had but perhaps she had not been there to hear it.

 

Well, she was here now. She thought of the loss she felt, the pain of her family’s deaths, the feeling of crumbling, of never moving forward ever again, the despair, and just when she went to take her own life, Balin spoke to her – words that would now be important to hear for them all. 

 

How ironic.

 

She ran a hand through her muddy, bloodied braids before standing up to walk over to her eldest brother, her king now. “We are the dwarves of Durin’s line, made in the image of Durin the Deathless, with his blood in our veins. We lead our people, the children of Mahal, torn from the stone and made to flesh to honor our forefathers. Mahal built us to endure any and all things, even death and even time. To sleep in the Waiting Halls until the world shall be remade by our hand,” she paused, reaching with one hand to raise her brother’s bowed head until his eyes rested upon hers.

 

She didn’t notice that the other dwarves – even Frerin – stared at her in slight awe and wonder or that the grim atmosphere no longer held such weary weight. She continued, brushing the dirt from his brow ( _just like she would do for Kili)_ “We will not – we cannot stop here. We will move forward as we have always done. There is nothing else.”

 

There never was.

 

**

 

Years fly again, decades more, and Dis’ golden times, as she called them, passed with a flourish. Her brothers were alive and well, her friends even more so, the politics had faded to barely a memory as her family toiled to provide the simple things. 

 

She met Heptfili, her One, somewhere different this time. She had been in the woods, cursing up a storm. There had been another fight with Frerin over her duties in the household – _‘dams don’t go hunting, that’s just the way it is, Dis –_ and she was _livid_ , taking her anger out on the surrounding brush and practicing her archery _._ It was hard acting the dutiful sister, attending these boring meetings and endless politics and to not be listened to, to be treated like a mere _dwarfling_.

 

Had she not seen 300 years, playing this ridiculous game? Had she, princess of Erebor, not guided her people home even knowing that her home (her boys) were forever lost to her? 

 

Had she not endured centuries of male stupidity and the War of the Ring? Who were they to tell her what to do?

 

“Now, what did that tree ever do to you, milady?”

 

She grunted, letting another arrow go again, this time catching a pheasant in the eye. She turned slowly, giving herself time to collect her thoughts and calm her mind.

 

And there he was with that smarmy grin and bright hazel eyes and one bow slung over his shoulder, and Dis couldn’t breathe.

 

It’s been years, centuries even, since she saw him last – leaving that fateful day to go help in the mines – and he still looked exactly like she remembered.

 

Next thing she knew, the ground was spinning past and she was back in her room, door shut and tears bright in her eyes. She could hear Thorin shouting something and Frerin knocking on her door but she simply curled around her knees and cried for the first in what felt like decades.

 

The next meeting was better – barely. She forgot how infuriating the dwarf was simply by breathing. He followed her around like a tick, showing up at the marketplace, the smith’s, in court, out of court, somehow even discovered where her secret training room was (the bastard).

 

If she didn’t know better, Dis would say the male was a stalker (even if seeing him still made her heart flutter and face flush and oh right, she’s his One as well). Eventually, she gave up the the fight (like she always would once she made him work for a bit) and accepted his courting offer (to the utter surprise and disapproval of her brothers – not that it changed her decision much). 

 

Five years later, Fili arrived with a roar while Kili came to the world with barely a whimper. Thorin’s eyes when he saw his sister-sons for the first time, shone with unshed tears, love-bright and happy in a way that she hadn’t seen since before the Calamity.

 

How could she have ever blamed him for their deaths?

 

And the next years were spent watching over the growing heirs to a lost kingdom (and making sure her infuriating – loving - husband stayed away from unstable mineshafts. Honestly, the line of Durin and their spouses had no self-preservation instinct. What was Mahal thinking?)

 

And then one day down the road, Thorin pulled Frerin and she aside after one of his many work trips and said, “I met with Tharkûn . . .”

 

And suddenly, with a dropping stomach, Dis knew it was finally time.

 

**

 

Dis was quiet during the discussions, silent during the planning, and almost mouse-like in the eventual call to arms from Thorin.

 

It made Thorin and Frerin twitchy. Very twitchy. Entertaining for Heptfili, but mostly twitchy.

 

She didn’t even make a peep when her sons (her foolish, brave boys) stepped forward and said in no uncertain terms that they would join their uncle on this quest. Heptfili had some words for them – some rather colorful words too – but in the end, without Dis backing him up (and he was truly baffled that the terrifying dwarf mother was allowing this), his sons would do what they had decided and join their uncle on this suicidal quest.

 

“I cannot believe you are allowing this, Dis,” he said for what felt like the fiftieth time, eyeing his unusually docile wife. Thorin and Frerin (and Balin and Dwalin) had admitted openly that a silent Dis was ten times more terrifying than an irate Dis – if only because you never knew when she would strike. Heptfili was starting to understand what they meant.

 

The dwarf princess hadn’t really reacted much more than a hum of acknowledgement, helping the boys pack as much as they could, sparring with them every day, then stating in no uncertain terms that if there was one hair harmed on their heads by the time she saw them again, she would pluck every hair from Thorin’s head using Oin’s tweezers before turning the same utensil on his dwarfhood.

 

Every male in the vicinity had winced at that one, and even Thorin paled dramatically (not that Hept blamed him; his wife was usually pretty good on her threats).

 

“Who says I’m allowing anything, dear?” Dis said quietly and Heptfili paused, turning to look at his wife again as she sharpened Fili’s knives. The boys were leaving tomorrow to join their uncle in some sort of undisclosed location, or so Thorin said. Frerin would stay behind (much to his ire) as the remaining male of the line of Durin with Dis and Heptfili as his advisors. 

 

Heptfili felt a niggling suspicion in the back of his mind. “What do you mean, love?”

 

Dis merely hummed again, eyes never leaving the knife as she sharpened it once more before turning it toward the light.

 

Heptfili’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the knife’s insciption before he nearly growled. “Those are _your_ knives.”

 

Dis finally turned her blue Durin gaze on him (and Mahal, if that didn’t make him want to court her all over again) before she threw him a saucy smirk. “You didn’t think I’d let my older brother and sons go rambling off without me, did you?”

 

Heptfili blinked then chuckled a little breathless, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. “Of course, you’re going. How could I think otherwise?” He sat down across form her and she put her knives away to look at him. “How will you get Thorin to agree?”

 

The grin this time was a tad vicious and Heptfili shivered under the knowing stare. “You leave that to me.”

 

He sighed before standing. “Well, that solves that then. I’ll go inform Thorin that I’ll be joining him.”

 

It had been awhile since he’d been able to surprise her but it looked like he had succeeded in this one instant much to his glee as his wife stuttered after him, “Wh-what do you mean? You’re needed here!”

 

“As are you,” he shrugged his shoulders and walked into their rooms. “But Frerin and that charming personality of his are making allies left and right. I’m sure he could manage the trading relations without me at his side or you scaring away the nobles.”

 

Dis glared at him, huffing. “I do not scare away the nobles.” She added under her breath, “Worthless spineless cowards.”

 

Heptfili didn’t even dignify that with a response, choosing instead to start packing.

 

Dis was silent behind him as he continued to pack his traveling gear but he could sense some unnamed tension building in the air.

 

“âzyungel,” she spoke and Hept stopped moving, turning to stare at his wife.

 

She loved him, he had never doubted that and never would. Out of all of her suitors, she chose him, walked with him, and loved him. He cherished every moment with her. She wasn’t however the most affectionate of spouses, never speaking of her love out loud and certainly never the type to share endearments (He didn’t mind; he more than made up for it for the both of them much to her embarrassment).

 

Looking at her now though, Heptfili could barely recognize his usually stoic wife. Wide Durin eyes filled with fear – a fear that came with knowledge – lancing through them while her lips trembled almost openly. Her hands clasped nervously in front of her as her throat warbled. She looked as uncertain as he had ever seen her.

 

Finally, before he could move, Dis steeled her shoulders, mouth tightened in a firm line, and started to say, “âzyungel, there’s something you need to know – “

 

A loud clamor echoed in the kitchen and Hept nearly cursed his sons right then as they clambered in from a night of celebrating their departure, as his wife clammed up and disappeared back into her stoic demeanor.

 

“Mum, Adad! K-kili, got drunk again,” Fili’s laughing voice echoed.

 

“So did you, Fee!”

 

Dis rolled her eyes and disappeared into the kitchen. Hept nearly laughed when twin screeches lit up and the full wrath of Dis echoed through the doors. He still wondered what his wife had been about to say.

 

(Two days later, Hept laughed under his breath much to his traveling companions’ confusion as he read the letter from his wife tucked away in his pack.

 

_See you in the Shire_. Mahal blessed, he loved that dam.

 

He vaguely wondered if he would ever understand his beloved.)

 

**

The Shire was much like Bilbo had described in their letters a life past - with green rolling hills peppered with smials and slow winding paths leading all the way up to Bag End. She had never had the chance to visit it in the previous time and Dis could really see the appeal as she languidly walked along Bagshot Road.

 

She knew she was taking a chance with this. Not only would she have to convince Thorin to allow her on the quest (he was still the king, unfortunately), but she would also have to convince the fussy little hobbit (his words, not hers) about the journey and Gandalf’s inquiry.

 

If Gandalf had not even spoken to the hobbit yet, then Bilbo would most likely think her a crazy dwarrowdam who had simply showed up to his door.

 

She found the green hole-in-the-ground with little trouble (having been one of the few of the line of Durin to maintain a sense of direction) and was pleased to note that Gandalf had already left his mark in the wood. She was pretty lucky now that she thought on it, somehow arriving in the afternoon before the Company’s arrival and after Gandalf’s. Huh, thank Mahal, indeed.

 

She knocked on the door, preparing to casually address the hobbit in front of her. It was all planned out in her mind. He was going to resist and she was going to counter every argument he had until he joined the Company and married her brother just as he was always meant to. 

 

What she didn’t expect was that upon opening the door, the hobbit took one look at her, his face paling rapidly, and staggered, holding on the door handle as though it was the only thing keeping him upright.

 

“Th-Thorin,” he bit out in shock and Dis gasped, nearly stepping back.

 

The Princess wasn’t named SteelEye out of misplaced titles. Her mind - sharp as mithril thread - knew that there was only one reason for the hobbit to mistake her as Thorin at this time. It would mean that he _recognized_ Thorin, that he _knew_ Thorin, that he _remembered_ Thorin.

 

This was getting better by the minute.

 

“You remember,” she breathed, striding forward. At her voice, Bilbo gulped as his eyes widened further then narrowed as she came closer to him, the grey-green flashing dangerously as he looked her up and down. He peered at her face then her clothing then the swords at her back. Dis stood relaxed and awaited his inspection, hoping he would come to the same conclusion as she.

 

Eventually, he took a deep breath before meeting her eyes, a certain type of bittersweet happiness in his gaze before throwing a saucy (wary) smirk. Dis knew there was a reason she liked this Halfling. “Why don’t you come on in, eh? It seems we have a lot to discuss, Mistress Dis.”

 

She bowed with a flourish, smiling widening ever more. “At your service, Master Baggins.”

 

**

 

“So,” Dis started as she sat down at the table, watching the hobbit curiously as he puttered about the home, making tea for the two of them. “You remember.”

 

Shoulders stiff, Bilbo nodded, his red curls shaking slightly though he threw her a wan grin. “Yes, I remember.”

 

Dis thanked him for the tea then peered at him closely. “How much?”

 

He shrugged. “Enough.” He took a sip of his own, licking his lips before peering at her curiously. “How long have you?”

 

Dis shrugged back. “Roughly 100 years, give or take.”

 

There was a pause as he frowned, staring into his cup. “I’ve only remembered for a few months, I’m afraid.”

 

Dis scoffed, leaning back in her chair. “Don’t worry yourself, little one. I have a feeling that I had more to change than you.”

 

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Oh?”

 

“Aye, Anzulzibar ring any bells?” Bilbo’s eyes widened as his mouth turned to a simple O. Dis took a sip before continuing. “Managed to save Frerin, our middle brother, while I was at it. Though our grandfather still died and our father went missing again.”

 

Bilbo leaned forward, his gaze on her and eyes steely, almost battle-bright. “Did you manage to kill him?”

 

Two guesses on who he meant, and Dis didn’t need either of them. She knew which black mark remained on the soil. She suddenly remembered why she liked this Halfling so much.

 

“No, the **_snotling-fodding goblin-rutter_** is still alive,” she scowled in return.

 

Bilbo stood up and turned away, cursing in Sindarin (and she’d have to keep a few of those) before nodding to himself.   

 

“Right, right,” he muttered. “Well, we know what we have to do, don’t we?”

 

“We’re going to change it,” she stated, determination steeling her words.

 

They shared a wild grin, promises fiercely held and grimly kept echoing in their eyes before Bilbo snorted turning back to his kitchen. “Well, then, we better get started, shouldn’t we?”

 

They end up making a list. Not a long list, just simple items of things to come, and written in Sindarin to ensure no wandering dwarf eyes would or could read it (save little Ori, and Dis knew the wee little lamb would be too terrified to go near and/or steal from her person). Tharkun would be suspicious if he ever saw it but Dis wasn’t too concerned about that.

 

Once she and Bilbo had listed down all the events of the Quest leading up to the gold madness and the deaths of the line of Durin _(-which would be prevented at all cost_ , Bilbo states angrily muttering into his tea, _even if I have to tie those numpty-headed relatives of yours down myself.)_ , Dis took another sip of her ale before addressing the next concern.

 

“And what of the Ring?”

 

Bilbo froze, the cup of tea caught on his lips before he set it down to give her his full attention.

 

“I have it,” Bilbo stated bluntly and Dis tensed, eyeing him in something close to shock. “I went to the caves already and found the dratted thing.” He grimaced, pulling his lips down in a frown. “Gollum was just as unpleasant as I remember.”

 

For a moment, Dis found herself briefly deprived of words (aside from curses) at the sheer brass of the little creature before her, her mind reaching the only conclusion. “You mean to destroy it yourself?”

 

The dwarrowdam didn’t know whether to be awed or exasperated at the determined look in the hobbit’s eyes when he simply nodded. She sighed, leaning back in her chair and feeling every inch of her years. “Of course, you do. What am I saying, this is the same Halfling that riddled with a dragon and went toe-to-toe with my foolish big brother in the height of gold-madness.”

 

Bilbo’s mouth quirked up in a mockery of a smile. “I’m not half of anything, thank you very much.”

 

Dis waved away his concern. “You know I will be joining you, correct?” She glared at him making sure that he knew she would not take any other answer.

 

He paused, the green-grey eyes staring at her contemplatively, sizing up her steely determination before he acquiesced, throwing his hands in the air. “Save me from the stubbornness of dwarrows,” Bilbo grumbled, “ _Fine,_ if by some miracle, we are not dead at the end of this mad venture, you may join me in my little walk to Mordor.”

 

Dis chuckled. “You make it sound as if it is just a ramble outside your door.”

 

Bilbo huffed before standing up. “All this talk of such pleasant things has made me hungry. I’ll go put on some tea.”

 

Before he moved away, Dis grabbed his arm, features solemn and voice grim. The hobbit paused, peering anxiously into her face. “I know,” she started, “that you remember much of the past, but I want you to understand this: Although it has not happened yet, you were named dwarf-friend and savior of the line of Durin. You loved my brother, and given his hasty proposal, he loved you in return. I have always cherished your friendship, _nadad_ , and I am glad to share in your perils, whatever they shall be.”

 

Bilbo’s face, though equally solemn, softened into an expression of nostalgic fondness. He wrapped his one free arm around her and leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers in an act of intimacy. “You dwarrow,” he breathed and she grinned, “So soppy when just a simple ‘thank you’ will do. I am glad you’re here, Dis.”

 

He leaned back, turning away but not before saying, “Of course, now you have to explain what you meant by Thorin’s ‘hasty proposal’ as you called it.

 

Dis froze in embarrassed horror, staring at the retreating back of the hobbit. 

 

**

 

The following conversation was enlightening to say the least.

 

“ _You mean to tell me that that pigheaded brother of yours PROPOSED to me with that that . . .”_

_“The mithril shirt, yes.”_

_“. . . and declared in front of all his kin, save you of course, that we would be . . .”_

_“Married once the mountain was reclaimed, yes.”_

_“. . . .”_

_“. . . .”_

_“Eru, save me from the foolishness of Mahal’s children! Mark my words, Dis, your brother’s ears will be_ ringing _if he pulls any other stunts like that. Why the nerve, then to up and_ die _on me, why I outta take my wooden spoon to his ear, that great big lump.”_

_“. . . I look forward to it.”_

The rest of the day was spent with Bilbo cooking and Dis relaxing in the guest room. She awoke from a nap, hearing a heavy knock on the door. Quickly, she dressed, catching a muffled conversation between Bilbo and, from what she could tell, Dwalin.

 

She pondered on whether or not she should come out now. She poked her head out into the hallway and Bilbo caught her eye as Dwalin ambled to the kitchens.

 

With a mischievous grin, he signed in _[iglishmêk](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Iglishm%C3%AAk)_. Stay-back. Wait-for-others.

 

She chuckled. Full of surprises, this one.

 

Soon enough, she heard the cheerful echoes of her sons and their father, the rest of the Company, and then something in the house crashed and singing started.

 

_"And that's what Bilbo Baggins hates."_

 

 Dis hummed along, grinning freely to enjoy the song, one she had never heard.

 

Then, dead quiet as a knock echoed through the smial.

 

Dis snorted.  Trust her eldest brother to be two hours late.

 

She gave it another few minute, allowing her brother time to eat and relax. Full battle gear on, she then strode through the hallway, already catching snippets of conversation.

 

"-right up the jacksie," the wee little lamb was shouting, with various interjections from the others, all excitement and reckless stubbornness as expected from Mahal's children.

 

She hung in the shadows of the archway, keeping quiet and watching the Company of Thorin Oakenshield with heavy eyes.

 

This Company hadn't yet faced the trials of the old, seen the Darkness spreading across the land first hand, felt war and battle and blood on thir fingertips; even Gandalf appeared younger and unburdened, his face bemused and entertained, with a smirking mouth curling around a pipe. Crafty wizard.

 

She had never really forgiven the meddlesome old fool for coaxing her family on this Journey in the first place. She didn't really feel like starting now; besides, it'd be fun to mess with him a bit.

 

She caught sight of Bilbo in the shadow of the corner and frowned. The hobbit was staring listlessly, his usually bright eyes dull and lost with the sounds of the others rolling over him.

 

"And are you?" Gloin asked suddenly, prodding.

 

Bilbo started, wide eyed and blinking as thought just remembering where he was. "Am I what?"

 

"Why, a burglar, of course."

 

Backing away, the hobbit bit his lip in response, looking nervous and small and unsure. Dis saw Thorin's eyes darken and his lips turn into a sneer. Ugh, blast her brother and his prejudice.

 

"No, no, I'm no burglar. Well, there were a few mushrooms at Farmer Maggot's place, and of course, there was that Troll hoard, and goodness, there _was_ that whole Stone fiasco." He grinned then (bitter and wary and pained all at once) at his startled audience and Dis smirked, impressed despite herself. "Well. I suppose I am a bit of a burglar, after all."

 

She didn't pay attention afterwards, waiting instead for her cue.

 

"Very well, Gandalf, we'll do it your way. Balin, give him a contract."

 

The parchment was shoved roughly in Bilbo's hands and he nodded, looking at the wording.

 

"It’s just the usual summary of out-of-pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements, so forth.”

 

Bilbo nodded along as though he knew, looking up and squinting when he glanced at Balin. By Mahal, the hobbit was quite the actor. How useful. "Funeral arrangements?"

 

Dis saw her kinsmen elbow each other as Bofur started to describe all the delightfully painful ways to die by dragon, all dwarrow smirking wolfishly at the hobbit as though to expect him to drop at a hat.

 

But instead, ignoring them, Bilbo raised his head, looking straight at her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I don't know; what do you think of this, Master Dis?"

 

The turnabout was far more entertaining than she could have ever imagined as she stepped out of the shadows into the life of the hallway.

 

Recognition moved to fear to shock to anger then back again as Dis grinned fiercely at them ( _her boys and Company_ ), hand on the hilt of her sword. 

 

"I believe it will be quite the adventure, Master Baggins. One I would be honored to join."

 

Quite the _different_ adventure this time around, of course. Of yes, you could bet on that.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [1] http://www.medievalcollectibles.com/p-14988-kopis-sword-with-bone-and-brass-handle.aspx
> 
> This was a simple one shot/prompt that I'd been working on for a bit, for fun. Enjoy and feel free to review.


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